


Entwined

by RubyFiamma



Category: Gangsta. (Manga), Gangsta. CURSED (Manga)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blood, Canon Age, Canon Era, Character Death, Injury, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-25
Updated: 2015-09-25
Packaged: 2018-04-23 08:27:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4870058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RubyFiamma/pseuds/RubyFiamma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Perhaps they've always been entwined, some sick red thread bathed in the blood of their sins and not some cheap ideology of star-crossed lovers and destiny."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Entwined

**Entwined**

* * *

 

It seems fitting that things would end like this; Striker can't say he expected any other outcome.

The heat of Spas' breath at his cheek is fading, each billow of breath gets more shallow with each exhale. Striker's limbs are starting to give out, he can feel the exertion in his legs as they struggle to keep him and Spas' added weight upright. The warmth of the other's blood seeping through his skin is comforting; his own beginning to congeal in the corners of his eyes and along the line of his nose. The sharp tang of metal is all Striker can smell, even with his nose pressed to Spas' skin.

"This isn't what I... wanted," Spas croaks, follows it with a sickening wet cough that smacks vibration through his throat. He's dying, Striker knows. It's been minutes since they've ceased fighting, come to a stalemate and too exhausted and broken to press on any more but Striker knows that Spas will go before him.

"Heh... you and yer fuckin' righteous path. You didn't have to choose  _this_ , Spas." Striker doesn't even have the energy to drag poison through his tone -- there's no one here to hear the soft affection in his voice anyway.

He sighs, Striker thinks there's a laugh in there somewhere and it almost stings thinking of how much the other's changed since he left, the things Spas gained that he could have never had if he had stayed with them.

"We were the monsters," he says. The garrote wires cut deeper into Striker's throat as Spas falters on his feet and he's got no choice but to reach out with his free hand and grab Spas' hip to keep from being beheaded. It isn't fair; the movement drives the shard of thick-cut glass he wields in his other hand further into Spas' gut, liquid warmth spills over his arm and spurts of it soak his jacket deeper maroon. His cheek is mottled with fresh blood as Spas chokes, gasps a lungful of air that isn't going to help him any because he's lost too much blood for any of it to matter.

Striker doesn't apologise. It's unfortunate but they're entwined in a deathtrap, Spas' wire spun too tight around them for movement. If he thinks about it long enough, perhaps they've always been entwined, some sick red thread bathed in the blood of their sins and not some cheap ideology of star-crossed lovers and destiny.

Instead he huffs a laugh, jerks the other's hip so that Spas pressed even closer than he was before. "We still are."

There's only a few seconds left before Striker's legs give out, maybe a minute at best before the other drops to the ground and takes Striker's head with him. By the sounds of Spas' breathing, now wet and rattling audibly through his chest, he won't make it another minute.

He feels Spas' chin dig into his shoulder as the other's will to even keep his head up depletes. It gives Striker this strange and oppressive feeling in his chest, a pang of one too many emotions for Striker to put a name to -- for Striker to even know what they mean.

"You... were just lost, like everyone else." It comes out in barely a whisper but Spas' lips are so close to Striker's ear that they brush tacky-wet against his skin. He can't believe the idiot is still trying to speak, even as thick viscous blood pours over his lips, stains the pale plush of them red.

"I was born a monster," Striker says, closes his eyes to the belief that maybe he  _was_ lost but this sickness was bred, it's ingrained into his cursed blood. He has always been tainted but only now has he ever considered that  _maybe_ he had a chance.

"You're not... Striker, I --" His breath's gone thin and cold, but Striker can feel Spas' last grin spread warm against his neck.

"Shut up and die already," Striker says only the tone he was aiming for just shatters the second he opens his mouth and his breath hitches in his throat. He waits a second, lets whatever heavy pressure this is compressing against his chest lighten before he releases his hold on the shard of glass in Spas' stomach. He can feel the agony of torn and ragged flesh in his palm and the sting of blood over his eyes but there's something else there, wet and hot and burning and he's not sure if it's the wire that makes his throat feel like it's closing up, like he's choking on air.

He fights for a breath as he takes Spas' dead weight in his arms, feels the wire go just a bit slack around his neck as the other's hands fall limp. There's still no way out of this, but Striker wasn't expecting a happy ending. That's not how one gets out of this life. It's only ever been bloodshed and death, renegades with a cause and monsters with a conscience and he's just spent his last moment with the only person who's made him feel human, even if he'll never be clean and the only piece of heaven he'll get is the last breath he takes at Spas' hands.

He opens his eyes like he's searching the heavens but the sky is ugly; grey, swollen clouds and broken sunlight home to a murder of crows that spread noisily overhead. This is fine, he's never been one to appreciate shit like this anyway. When he slides his eyes shut again, it's to imagine the grin and soft blue eyes of his own god.

"I worshiped you, you know." Striker grins, takes one last breath just as the crows fall silent. "Maybe even loved you."

And he lets go.

 


End file.
